


Lavender

by roseluu (rowanscrown)



Series: We'll Nearly Fall [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 18:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12018372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanscrown/pseuds/roseluu
Summary: Matthew has learned many things.





	Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> this is a semi-companion to my stories Blue Garden and Checkmate.

The first time, he recalls, is while he’s stuck in a tree.

He’s uncoordinated, slipping and tripping and blistering his palms. The leaves block the moon breaking through the horizon, and Matthew is left in darkness.

Alfred skipped off hours ago when Arthur had called them inside for supper. Matthew knows he’s not coming back, not for a brother who is afraid of the dark. Certainly not for one he’s already forgotten.

*

He’s learned many things from Francis when he was young. How to groom, how to keep his curling hair cut short but not _too_ short, how to preserve furs and skins, and to wear his finest dresses unless told otherwise. He listens to orders, even when guards will tug at his skirts and misplace his shoes. Matthew heats the bathwater the way Francis likes it, and smiles and nods while his people begin to whisper behind closed doors. They lose trust when their furs are stolen, and it seems Francis does not want to lose him, not this easily.

“You will not listen to a single, nonsensical, word those Highlanders say,” Francis says one night while scrubbing his head with oils in the bath. “They hadn’t even known of your existence until he bombarded my ships!”

Matthew nods under Francis’ fingers. “Yes, papa.”

“Do not leave these doors, understand?”

“Yes, papa.”

He feels Francis smile while carefully pouring cold water over Matthew’s head, tipping the clay pot against his pale forehead, until one drop trails over his brow, then over the bridge of his nose.

Francis takes pride in his teachings. Matthew has also learned this: Only fight when you need to. Necessity overpowers violence, of course.

Necessity overpowers violence.

*

Matthew, even younger, almost understands why people forget him. This is a fleeting thought that passes through his mind into a vague cloud. This cloud, in the future, will turn black and pollute, smothering his brain until all he sees is what he doesn’t want to see.

But, in this moment, he doesn’t figure it out. He doesn’t figure it out while staring down at the dim, moss-green grass as he fidgets in the tree. He doesn’t learn it when Francis leaves him, either.

He doesn’t figure it out, but suspects it on his way to meet Alfred.

*

Matthew discovers anthills at puberty, and Arthur is all he thinks about.

But this doesn’t matter.

Arthur has rules in his home: Don’t pick fights, don’t wet the bed, switch out your candles, be curt but polite, and be in bed before nine-thirty (nine-thirty- _two_ if Arthur is feeling generous). Matthew follows these rules without question, precise and with the hope he’d please. This is what he’s good at.

( _Francis whispers, “Do not let him trick you."_ )

It’s different with Arthur than it is Francis. Arthur has more servants. They fetch the bathwater, scrub the cloths, polish the shoes, prepare breakfast, brunch, and sometimes mid-day tea when Arthur is busy working. And, he isn’t allowed to enter Arthur’s private quarters without permission, or wander around the ships, or go hunting with Kumajirou in the streams. With Francis, though, Matthew learns and learns and develops strict habit.

Also, he isn’t enough for Arthur’s attention.

He does learn something from Arthur during a thunderstorm.

His candle had been blown out when he wakes. Silently tip-toeing in cowering steps down the hallway, he pokes open Arthur’s door. Arthur is a light sleeper, and sits up when peeks inside. It is Arthur who lifts the sheets, beckons, and covers him in silk and the scent of raspberry tea. It is he who threads his fingers through Matthew’s golden hair, massaging his scalp as he sniffles.

Thunder cracks, and down the hall Alfred cries Arthur’s name.

Fingers stop, and Matthew watches him glance down at his hair, brows stitched in a thick line.

“I thought you were Alfred,” Arthur whispers, then sighs, and slips out of bed to comfort his brother.

Thunder cracks again, and Matthew pulls the sheets tighter.

*

Alfred leaves quietly. He says nothing to Matthew. They’ve already covered each in bruises from a fight the night before. He takes only a musket and a quill.

Alfred knows of nothing that comes after. He is a naïve, impulsive nation, who thinks only of himself. He wants Arthur’s attention, he craves Arthur, and therefore he must be equal. Without Matthew, without Francis, without Gilbert. He is going to do something he will regret.

Some would say Arthur raised him perfectly.

*

 

Arthur teaches him something important.

Matthew clumsily picks up drawing. He doesn’t have Alfred to make sneak around the kitchen with, nor is he allowed outside manor doors. He misses strolling around town, sparing money for pickled vegetables and fruit. But, he doesn’t mind not having the leisure, because he has Arthur, after all. Drawing is a pastime behind his bedroom doors with his favorite quill Francis had secretly sent him years ago.

The rhythmic banging has softly wracked the walls for some time now, but Matthew hums to drown it out. The voices down the hallway don’t bother him too much, either. This is something he must let happen. Arthur had told him to leave it alone and speak nothing of it. Another rule Matthew must follow.

Something crashes, and a thump rattles louder than the others. Matthew’s stomach twists.

And twists.

And _twists_.

Breaking one rule can’t hurt. (He learns this is untrue).

So, he shuffles down the hallway. There’s solid grunting and a small inhale, and the voices continue, even when Matthew pokes open the door. What he sees is unknown, and he returns to his room silently.

Kumajirou rubs his nose against his arm when he sits at his desk, scribbling, scribbling, scribbling. Matthew says, “It’s okay. It’s fine. If Alfred was here, he’d come draw with us, wouldn’t he? Crazy brother.”

Kumajirou sniffs once. “Who are you?”

You do not fight, not even with necessity.

“Let me cut your hair.”

Matthew is halfway down the stairs the next morning and still sleepy. “Sorry?”

Arthur is persistent, and his body is swollen. “Let me cut your hair.”

Arthur’s hands are delicate, Matthew discovers. A different delicate. Francis has slim hands with smooth knuckles white with scars. Arthur’s hands are knobby and pronounced and patched. He’s careful with the knife, scraping at Matthew’s ear-length hair. Arthur has told him many times how much he hates his hair. It’s too French, too queer. But Arthur hadn't ever done anything about it.

“How short are you going to cut it?” he asks.

“Does it matter?” Arthur says.

Matthew says, “Okay.” And smiles.

Arthur’s fingers suddenly twist and yank, just for a moment.

“Why’d you let him leave?”

Arthur had seen him grow purple.

*

Matthew begs to stay when Arthur cedes him.

*

When he’s remembered, it’s special. Very special, and he’s very happy about it.

Michelle comes to him first, after noticing him. She is not impressed, but she is curious.

“You know, you look a lot like Francis.”

He smiles and agrees. He has the same hair, slightly shorter, same curled nose, same languid accent. He smiles and agrees, because she has felt the same loss for the same person. He smiles and agrees, because he had learned long ago.

*

Alfred visits a lot. They watch movies, listen to music, one-sidedly raid the fridge. Alfred talks mostly of Arthur, in a way Matthew does not want to hear. He asks Matthew about him, too.

“Do you still have the hots for him?”

Matthew shakes his head. “No. I never did.”

Alfred laughs, boyishly and loud. “You can’t fool me, bro. Besides, everyone could tell.”

Matthew sometimes thinks his feelings towards Arthur were soiled by Alfred. Maybe they were soiled the day Arthur cut his hair to his ears, or when he’d held him too tight in bed while they slept. But, Matthew doesn’t think he’s ever had feelings for Arthur. He’d do anything for him, but to do what Alfred does? He doesn’t think so.

Does it bother him? He doesn't think so.

*

Matthew learns Francis worries for him. "A weak man, he is," Arthur had said. Matthew spends his days signing bills and paperwork and cleaning his home. In the evenings, he watches hockey or drinks himself to sleep after fishing with Kumajirou. When Francis remembers him, fifteen minutes is spared talking with him on the phone.

Francis worries too much. Matthew loves it.

Francis is as weak as him. Like father, like son, he supposes. When he visits, Matthew smiles and nods as they drink, and floats on the high of eyes on him, and revels in someone saying his name. Just his name.

*

He figures it out when he burns down the White House. That night, he lets go. Those little slivers between his eyes, pressing against his skull, ease. He watches his brother clutch his chest and writhe in pain at his feet. When Alfred looks to his eyes, Matthew is wracked with ecstatic shivers roving up his spine from the fear.

This is the first time he’s ever seen Alfred cry.

Something twists, something aches, and something in him coils into a tight mound of laughter, because he understands now. This – everything – he understands.

Alfred is the man Matthew was supposed to be.

*

What Matthew says when Arthur cedes him:

“Please. _Please_. I can’t leave you, I won’t leave you. No matter what happens, no matter what they do to me, I’ll be by your side until you don’t want me.”

Arthur turns on his heel. “Then, I don’t want you.”

He doesn’t look Matthew in the eye, not anymore. Alfred hadn’t been the last downfall of Arthur, but he had been close. Matthew isn’t sure what the greatest downfall was, and what downfalls are still flooding him now. One downfall had been the moment he’d cut Matthew’s hair and blindly squeezed a necklace of blue on his neck.

But, still, Arthur taught him many things, and like Francis, one had been to never question orders.

*

He has slept with many people in his lifetime. He has been lathered with tulips, smothered by too-sweet perfume, bitten down on by swords, threatened with smoke, whispered to about the horrors of war. These things do not bother him, the bodies don’t know anything about him. They see his long, golden hair, or his Southern smile when he’s happy to be seen, and that’s enough for them.

No one has ever said his name.

His first memory is when his skin is tanner, his hair is longer, and black, like a dark nut. He doesn’t remember much about these days, but he remembers skinning animals one-by-one, gutting them senseless as they squeal. He left them at his peoples’ feet, and Francis had found him and dragged him off onto a ship with a cloth over his eyes not long after. This is what he remembers, and he doesn’t hate it.

It had taken him long to learn Alfred had been there, too.

…

Matthew doesn’t talk at meetings. He doesn’t talk much elsewhere, as well. He is a quiet man, and graces small smiles even in the most hideous of moments. He does not like to see others hurt.

Nothing is has changed, not really. He hadn’t been seen from the start, not until he’d slathered if palms in blood, or let his lungs run dry whenever someone moaned, “Alfred.”

Maybe something had changed when he was left all night in that tree. Maybe.


End file.
